


Sanctuary

by non_canonical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Missing Scene, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from <i>A Scandal in Belgravia</i>.</p>
<p>Sherlock wasn't equipped to deal with this: the hurt, the anger, and whatever softer feelings had provoked them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. Concrit welcome.

Mycroft grimaced at the lingering musk of Irene's perfume.  His hands clenched, the skin pulling taut across the knuckles, and that was how he felt: stretched too tight, approaching breaking strain.  The lights dazzled his eyes, and he fumbled for the switch.  His armchair beckoned, and he sank into the embrace of worn leather, moulded to his body over many sleepless nights.

A shuffle of feet, a rustle of clothing in the shadows by the door.  Three pounding heartbeats, then he recognised the gait.

"Is there something else?" he asked as Sherlock crept into the room.  Shocking: the weariness in his voice; his inability to hide it.

"I unlocked the phone for you."

A non sequitur; Mycroft twisted round.  There was a too-quiet stillness on his brother's face, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"I believe," Sherlock said, "that's adequate compensation for my mistake." But he didn't believe it, not really.  The fact that he was still here argued otherwise.

Mycroft studied his brother from the vantage of that extra inch that Sherlock had never managed to catch up.  Sherlock's nostrils flared, and his mouth wavered into a downward curve.  Ah – it was going to be one of _those_ nights.  Even after all this time, his sibling couldn't ask for it, not in words, but there was a mute appeal in those glistening eyes.  

Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in response: they never spoke once this had started.  His first, experimental, pressure met with resistance, muscle and cartilage holding his brother's frame in stiff defiance.  Sherlock had never been good at self-discipline.  Had never needed to be, not while Mycroft was there.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, locking the breath inside his chest.  Then the air gusted out of him, and his shoulder sagged under Mycroft's hand.  A gentle nudge, and Sherlock let himself be steered, loose-limbed and pliant, towards the hearth.  With just his fingertips, Mycroft pushed him to his knees.

Moisture welled in Sherlock's eyes and Mycroft covered them with his hand.  The lashes tickled, soft and rapid against his palm, until Sherlock's eyes finally closed.  Sherlock's fingers writhed and tightened against each other, and Mycroft found that he was angry in a way he hadn't been earlier while Irene had still been there.  He dropped a hand to the nape of the other man's neck and let it rest against the quivering muscle.  The snarl of tension softened; the head dropped.  Sherlock's hands unclasped and fell limp on his thighs.  The burn inside of Mycroft didn't lessen, only softened, twisting into something far less righteous; his fingers lingered on the exposed curve of his brother's neck.

Mycroft crossed to the window – the heavy damask whispered shut – then over to where the decanter glinted in the lamplight.  He downed a mouthful of brandy, just enough to warm a path down his throat and set his stomach protesting its emptiness.  He settled into position, Sherlock silent beside his chair, and he turned his thoughts back to the Adler information.

It wasn't enough to topple his world, but it might make the ground quake beneath the feet of a few prominent individuals.  Questions of categorisation, of prioritisation – the full analysis could wait until morning.  His mind began to run along settled, familiar tracks, and beside him Sherlock's breaths came slower, quieter.  This was how it worked, this thing between them: a fragile osmosis of calm, of control.

But tonight – tonight Sherlock's knees creaked as he shifted on the bare floorboards, and his eyelids fluttered as he fought the urge to open them, to watch.  Tonight, he must be needy because he didn't flinch when Mycroft's fingers smoothed through his hair.  The fire had brought the sweat gleaming onto Sherlock's skin, and Mycroft's mouth watered with the urge to press his tongue into the hollow of his brother's throat and lick.  Just that – the imagined, salty tang of it – was enough to make him hard.  Not for the first time, of course, but this wasn't about sex – not before, anyway, and not for Sherlock.

Mycroft pulled back his hand – conveyor of treacherous data – and he shifted in an attempt to ease his aching arousal.  Sherlock's head whipped round, gaze cloudy at first, then focusing on his crotch.  Their eyes locked and held, a perfect tension between Mycroft's desire and Sherlock's disinterest.  Then Sherlock was crawling to kneel at his feet, giving the answer before he was sure of the question.  Or maybe he knew the question better than Mycroft; maybe he'd always known.  

Sherlock shuffled closer, and Mycroft wanted to bury his teeth in that pale expanse of throat, to bring his hand down, hard, on Sherlock's face and watch the blood stain the surface like a brand.  But no – that was what Irene did.  Mycroft wanted something more, something no one else had had.  His legs spread wider, his body leaping ahead of his mind for once, and it wasn't as disconcerting as he'd feared.  He eased his erection free of the confines of his suit.

Sherlock simply stared and Mycroft froze, throbbing with need but wanting to savour a moment that might never happen again.  Then Sherlock was angling forwards, rubbing his cheek down the length of Mycroft's cock.  When he buried his nose in the wiry curls and inhaled, Mycroft's cock jerked hard enough that he had to stifle a moan.  And just when his hands clutched at the air, wanting to drag his sibling closer, Sherlock opened his eyes and wrapped his lips around the tip of Mycroft's erection.  Just the very tip, still not enough to satisfy, and Mycroft's hips jerked of their own accord, thrusting him deeper into Sherlock's mouth.

One glorious moment surrounded by that slick pressure, then Sherlock pulled away.  Mycroft swallowed down a queasy fear – it had been a tease or, worse, an apology – then Sherlock's lips closed over him again.  This time he slipped lower, engulfing the head, his tongue a firm pressure against the underside.  The carved wooden armrests bit into Mycroft's fingers where he clamped his hands in place.  Sweat prickled on his forehead, on his belly, the small of his back, but he held himself still.

Sherlock began to move.  Clumsily at first – Mycroft winced at the sting of teeth – but faster, tighter, and then the younger man found his rhythm.  And Mycroft was getting there too quickly, because this was Sherlock, and his brother had never done this for anyone else.  His thighs were clenching, his release a hot tide swelling in the pit of his stomach.  His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair, trying to pull him clear, but the other man resisted, kept going – actually took him deeper – and Mycroft arched up out of the chair as he came.

Sherlock sank back onto his heels, grimacing as he swallowed.  Mycroft could feel an answering burn at the back of his own throat, a bitter taste that he couldn't swallow down.  Mycroft watched his brother crawl back into position at his side – a smear of semen glistened at the corner of his mouth; the pulse was pounding in his throat, but his trousers stretched tight enough to show that he was limp – and he didn't know which of them to feel more sorry for.  

Thirty years of practice at deducing Sherlock's motives, and sometimes Mycroft thought that he knew nothing at all.  He could speak – break their unwritten rule, and ask – but there were worse things than uncertainty.

Mycroft reached out his hand and resumed stroking his brother's hair.


End file.
